


listen before i go

by The_Queen_Of_Angst



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Ghosts, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, One Shot, Overdosing, Past Child Abuse, Sad Ending, Song fic, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, billie eilish - Freeform, i mean its klaus, listen before i go, no happy ending, welcome to the void bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-13 04:13:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18461255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Queen_Of_Angst/pseuds/The_Queen_Of_Angst
Summary: klaus is just done.(vvvv angsty!! abandon all hope ye who enter)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [listen while you read](https://youtu.be/P4z1O3miesI)

_take me to the rooftop_

_i wanna see the world when i stop breathing, turning blue_

 

A man clad in tight leather pants and a bright pink tank top teetered at the edge of a 46 story building, looking out into the twinkling horizon before him. The countless grams of countless drugs flowed through his veins. At least in his last moments of breath, the spirits would be gone.

 

 _Ah_ \--except that one.

 

Although he chose to ignore the muffled, worried yells of his deceased brother that emitted from behind him, it didn’t change the fact that he was there. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need saving. He didn’t want help.

 

He took a shaky breath in and out, his frame swaying back and forth in the wind, so _close_ yet so far from his demise. The freezing autumn wind pricked and stung his skin, a harsh contrast to the burning, pulsing sensation from underneath it.

 

A smile played at his lips; his mind so far away from the current situation that it all seemed humorous. It was humorous, in a way, with such a quick and exciting ending to such a boring, dull life.

 

_tell me love is endless, don't be so pretentious_

_leave me like you do_

 

Love was a cursed thing. Everyone he had ever loved, anyone he had cared for, had either abandoned him or died.

 

Luther gave up on him when he came back from his first trip to rehab and immediately overdosed on PCP.

 

Diego had scoffed the first time he returned to the mansion at four in the morning, hopelessly drunk and high off his ass.

 

Allison lost hope when she had caught him red-handed attempting to steal her precious golden locket.

 

Five never _completely_ gave up on him; he didn’t get the opportunity to before he disappeared. And no matter how hard the man tried to stay sober to conjure him, the boy never appeared.

 

Ben was dead. Ben was his only anchor in life, but after his death the junkie went off the deep end and abandoned any sort of rules and guidelines he had set for himself. There was no hope and no one there for him, so what was the point in following any of the morals he once had tried to keep?

 

Vanya betrayed him. Vanya had betrayed them all. She had exposed and villainized him in her book, attacking all his flaws and exposing any sort of secrets he still had left to keep. It was obvious she hated him, so he decided to keep the feeling mutual.

 

They all left him. He didn’t mind, he knew it was coming when he took that first sip of alcohol and hit that first joint.

 

He really couldn’t blame them.

 

_if you need me, wanna see me_

_better hurry ‘cause i’m leaving soon_

 

For the record, he had tried calling each of his siblings before it got to this. He wanted to reach out to the people he had tried so desperately to love, and who he’d tried so desperately to get to love him. He was met with crippling rejection; no one even bothered to pick up besides Diego, who just dismissed him before he even had time to talk with something about how he was in the middle of police training.

 

The man let out a shaky, wet laugh.

 

Here he was, practically on his deathbed, and his siblings couldn’t give less of a shit.

 

It didn’t matter. He’d leave this realm soon.

It didn’t matter.

_It didn’t matter._

_sorry can't save me now_

 

No matter whatever reassurances and promises that Ben was calling to him, the man wasn’t changing his mind. He had made his decision a long time ago; he knew he wouldn’t live long. He knew this was coming for a long time. No one could change his mind, no amount of false promises, hope, or gifts could divert his heart from this plan.

 

Any apologies that were owed were so far overdue that they wouldn’t make a difference either way.

 

_sorry I don't know how_

_sorry there's no way out (sorry)_

_but down_

_hmm, down_

 

His life was just so utterly _fucked,_ this was the only option. He didn’t--he _couldn’t_ see another possible way for his future to go to except immediate death. The pavement underneath his feet was his fate, something he was beyond okay with.

 

His eyes flickered from the horizon to the ground, several, several, floors beneath him.

 

His breath hitched, not in fear, but in _excitement._ Through the haze in his mind, he vaguely thought that this was the first time he had felt excited or happy--something other than complete misery and hopelessness--in years.

 

He needed this. _He needed this._

 

_taste me, these salty tears on my cheeks_

_that's what a year-long headache does to you_

 

He felt a warm tear roll down his gaunt, dirty cheek. Then another, and another. He chuckled thickly through the tears--God, he must have lost his mind. Seconds away from death and his emotion spectrum was larger than it had been in years. Spectacular timing, really, but his mind was made.

 

He popped another pill--Xanax? Oxy? It didn’t matter--into his mouth, numbing the bubbling emotions that threatened to rise and spill over furthermore. More emotions meant more distress, more heartbreak, more betrayal, more misery. He would take numbness over any of those things anyday.

 

His head pounded as the bitter pill slowly dissolved between his dry tongue and the roof of his mouth.

 

He couldn’t remember a time when his veins weren’t pounding under his too-tight skin, when his lungs weren’t compressed within his too-tight ribcage, when his brain wasn’t rattling in his too-tight skull, when his bones weren’t shaking in his too-tight body.

 

He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t feel like cutting through his skin, or drowning himself in a bath of freezing water, or walking out in front of busy traffic, or throwing himself off the roof of a building.

 

He guesses there’s a first (and a last, in his case) time for everything.

 

_i'm not okay, i feel so scattered_

_don't say i'm all that matters_

_leave me, déjà vu_

 

No one took him seriously. That’s really what got to him. He tried to get better, he really did. He tried to get sober, but no one believed him.

 

Ben’s dead, don’t you remember?-

 

_Maybe if you tried harnessing your powers a little better-_

 

Didn’t you even try to conjure Five?-

 

_Maybe if you tried a little harder-_

 

Why don’t you care about your dead loved ones?-

 

_Maybe if you took anything seriously--_

 

How can you just sit there, high, at a time like this?-

 

_Maybe if you stopped acting like such a useless junkie--_

 

He tried rehab. He tried drugs. He tried loving people. He tried to get help from anyone who’d listen. Hell, he even tried selling himself--not just for drugs, not just to feel _something_ for once (though those were definitely key factors)--but in hopes either they or someone who’d notice would help.

 

Nothing worked. He tried, over and over again, like a broken merry-go-round, but no one cared nor helped.

 

Guess he would try his last option.

 

_if you need me, wanna see me_

_you better hurry, i’m leaving soon_

 

He doubted anyone would actually care. God, he had been so _stupid_ calling his family. He hadn’t actually talked to them in years, he had only picked their locks and stolen valuables from them to pawn.

 

Why the hell would they want to save their worthless, _pathetic_ junkie brother?

 

He was a waste of the Hargreeves title.

 

He was doing them a favor--yes, that was it. They’d be happy.

 

Another bitter laugh escaped his raw throat, but the sound didn’t reach his ears.

 

He was the worst.

 

He was the fucking worst.

 

_Wasn’t he just the absolute fucking worst?_

 

His head spun, his vision becoming black around the edges.

 

_sorry can't save me now (sorry)_

_sorry i don't know how (sorry)_

_sorry there's no way out (sorry)_

_but down_

_hmm, down_

 

It was almost time for him to leave for good. The chilly wind had subsided into nothingness. The dead air stood still around him, suspended and waiting, holding its breath until he took that last step.

 

He didn’t want to spend any more time contemplating his life choices before he changed his mind for whatever reason. He wasn’t one to dwindle about for hours on end before making a decision, he was a no-rust buildup kind of guy.

 

_call my friends and tell them that i love them_

 

He took a deep breath in, filling his lungs with dull, still air.

 

_and i'll miss them_

 

He let it out.

 

_but i’m not sorry_

 

He wasn’t sorry.

 

He turned around and faced the spirit he had been tuning out.

 

_call my friends and tell them that i love them._

 

Ben had tears streaking his pale, blue face, which glowed dimly in the darkness. He seemed to be shouting something, but the man didn’t hear him.

 

He didn’t think he wanted to.

 

Before his mind could decipher and make out words from the muffled noises he could hear, he spoke.

 

His voice sounded foreign, raspy and empty to ears.

 

“Call my family and tell them that I love them.”

 

Another scream.

 

_and i'll miss them_

 

“-and that I’ll miss them all.”

 

He heard screeching that should’ve sent a pang of pain and regret through his heat--but it didn’t. He was absolutely, _terrifyingly_ numb.

 

He closed his eyes. He was _so_ tired. He needed to rest. He needed to sleep.

 

Klaus took a step backwards, and everything around him went silent.

 

_sorry_

 

Sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops my fingers slipped and i've made everyone who's read my shit want to perish


	2. Chapter 2

Diego got a second call that night a couple hours after Klaus’s.

 

He had given up on fighting with his coworker quite some time ago, resorting to doing his actual job and bitterly mopping the dirty gym floors.

 

He felt his phone vibrate and fished it out of his pocket, cursing under his breath.  _ Klaus, I swear to God-- _

 

And then the woman on the other side of the speaker told him he needed him to come down to the morgue and identify the body of whom they thought belonged to his brother.

 

His hands immediately became clammy as he felt a chill run down the length of his spine, a pit of ice quickly forming in his gut. _ No, no, it has to be a mistake. It can’t be-- _

 

He dropped the mop where he was standing and took off running, ignoring the yells of protest coming from his boss. 

 

He drove as fast as he could to the downtown morgue, stomach churning, running several red lights. He frantically called each of his siblings while his car raced to the destination; Number Four was the only one who didn’t pick up. _ Fuck.  _

 

Upon arriving to the morgue, Luther, Allison, and Vanya following close behind him, they all rushed into the building together. The woman at the front desk looked at them with sympathetic eyes and directed them to the room where their brother might very well have been. The four siblings took off running to the room, and burst through the door and _ oh my god-- _

 

Their brother lay still on a cold metal table, mangled up to the point where only his family could recognize who the body once was. His skull was bashed open and his limbs were twisted in strange, unnatural ways. Various tendons and bones were exposed and the table was slick with cold blood. Everyone froze and their hearts dropped when they saw little Number Four before them, with no trace of life left in his body.

 

The mortician stood up from his chair in the corner, clipboard in hand, and informed them what had happened. 

 

Vanya choked out a sob. Luther let in a sharp inhale and held a shaking Allison. Diego stood there dumbly, limbs cold and head pulsing. 

 

_ They had just lost their brother to himself.  _

 

-

 

Number one didn’t know what to make of the situation.

 

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to handle a situation like this? Fathe-- no, sir-- no,  _ reginald  _ had never prepared them for a situation like this. Especially such a dark, dreary one.

 

Especially one involving his brother. 

 

Hell, Luther had already lost two brothers, one missing and one dead. Let alone losing three, one missing and two dead. 

 

Number One recalls several occasions where he would find his brother in his room or stumbling about the house, high as a kite, singing nonsense or mumbling nervously. Such behavior would be met with a scolding from the leader of the group, to which the boy responded with some sort of crude retort. 

 

He recalls the first time his brother went to rehab--he was about fifteen--after Reginald decided he would no longer put up with his  _ “immature and shameful behavior.”  _

 

The next time Luther saw his brother, he was in the tub, barely clinging to life with pills scattered about the floor and dissolving in the tub.    
  


Luther had been on some terrifying missions, but nothing--absolutely  _ nothing-- _ could top the feeling of seeing his brother, eyes rolled up to the back of the head and foaming at the mouth, inches from death. 

 

Later in the hospital his fear had morphed into anger and he spent hours yelling at the boy.  _ If he had done things differently, would his brother have ended up like this? _

 

He shut off that though as soon as it came; he had to remain strong. Luther had to stand as the one who would provide hope and a clear mind amongst the group. 

 

So he stood there above the corpse of his brother, holding Allison and attempting to keep a straight face for the team. Their team of four. 

 

-

 

Number seven was heartbroken. 

 

Vanya was no stranger to these subjects--Lord knows how many times she contemplated, or was close to following through with what her brother had done herself. 

 

But as she stared down at her brother’s mangled body, guilt overwhelmed her. 

 

She could’ve helped him. She could’ve seen it coming.

 

Did she do this?

 

_ Oh god, she did this. _

  
All those terrible things she wrote--she didn’t mean it! She was just so angry at her father and her brother’s and sister’s negligence when she wrote--

 

She truly didn’t mean any of it. She recalls several times where she actually had fun with her brother; he would return home late at night, times where vanya would often still be up due to her medicine interfering with her sleep. She always would invite him into her room, prepared to clean up whatever vomit among other things her brother left behind. The dazed and far-away look in his eyes was something she rarely saw other than when he was so high he was almost dead. 

 

Her stomach clenched painfully at the memories and Vanya fought back the strong urge to throw up right then and there.

 

But then she remembered the call she received a little over an hour ago--when her brother was calling her, asking her,  _ begging _ her for help. 

 

And she declined the call. Vanya felt bile rise up to the back of her throat and had to bring a hand up to her mouth. Chills ran down her spine and her insides churned. 

  
She could have stopped this. And it was her fault.  _ It was all her fault. _

 

Emotion washed over her petite frame like tidal waves. 

 

She wished she spent more time with him. She wishes she knew him better. 

 

Vanya would never get the chance. 

 

-

 

Number three saw it coming.

 

A terrible thing to say, but it was true. Sure, Allison hadn’t seen her brother in years, but that didn’t stop her from remembering the hollow look in his eyes, the nightmares, the absences of his presence for days on end, and the overdoses (that she had inferred were not so accidental as everyone else seemed to think). 

 

She remembers how he would come into her room those nights where his eyes were a bit duller and his spirit less peppy than usual. 

 

Him and Allison would play dress up for hours: Allison would do his makeup, they would both try on ridiculous outfits, and they would gossip about boys and girls and whatnot until the sun peeked over the horizon and muted blue light spilt into the room. 

 

Despite those cheerful and giddy hours, she remembered the way he would look after his father caught them and forced him to do extra training. She remembered the corpse-like way he moved and acted after returning home after a few days. And with each time his training occurred, the more broken Number Three could see he was becoming. 

  
However, the breaking point for her was when he attempted to steal the most precious item in her room.

 

It was a few days before he moved out. She was headed upstairs after completing an extra study with Grace when she was met with her brother rushing down the hallway with the golden necklace in his hand.

 

And she snapped. She called him names, scolded him, and told him to fuck right off with his drug addiction. 

 

And sure, Allison had caught him in the past stealing things from her and her siblings rooms, but usually let it go after a yell or two. 

 

But this was different. He knew how much the locket meant to her, and he stole it anyway. 

She longed for the days where he and she would play dress up and talk without a care in the world. 

 

Allison missed that. And she forever would.

 

-

 

Number Two felt like the air was punched out of his lungs. 

 

He knew his brother struggled--he knew he was tormented-- but  _ this?  _

 

Diego had no fucking idea. 

 

He couldn’t help feeling like this was completely on him--Number Four had called him and the vigilante just discarded him like a piece of trash.

 

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

 

He never thought he would see Number Four, his brother, before him on a cold metal table, with bones and bruises and blood on display, eyes completely lifeless. 

 

Especially a death like this. One at the junkie’s own hands. 

 

Diego recalls the beginning of it all. God, they had been so  _ young, _ and he didn’t know what to do or say when his brother returned to the mansion at four in the morning, drunk and high, stumbling around with bruises decorating his neck and blood painting the inside of his thighs. Number Two--as well as the rest of siblings, though none of them would admit it--were worried sick when they first couldn’t find their fourth sibling. Eventually, though, they gave up and headed to their rooms for the night and assumed he would return for training in the morning. 

 

Diego couldn’t just let it go that easily. He stayed up and sat by the staircase, waiting for his brother’s return. However, when The Seance strolled through the door, being surprisingly quiet despite his carefree actions, rage overcame Diego. His brother left for hours on end, worrying the entire household, only to come back with all sorts of illegal substances coursing through his veins? Red clouded his vision and he loudly scolded the other until the old man came down to see what all the ruckus was. 

 

Number Four had been punished accordingly, according to Grace, and the next time he saw his brother was five days later with a new, haunted look in his eyes.

 

Diego never knew what Reginald did to him—but whatever it was, it stuck with the junkie until his death. The Kraken could see traces of that same expression his brother’s sullen, clammy face before him.

 

He felt guilt well up in the out of his stomach; if only he accepted the call, the dead man in front of him might still be alive. 

 

Diego had been sparring with one of his coworkers in his free time in the gym, when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Distracted, he took it out and saw his brother was calling. The other man used this as an opportunity to grab his arm and slam him to the ground. Diego groaned and glared at the other.

 

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” the man shrugged with a shit eating grin and walked off.

 

Diego huffed in annoyance and answered the phone.

 

“Listen, Klaus, I’m kind of in the middle of something right now so if you’re asking for money or a ride of whatever the  _ fuck _ else, I’m not giving it to you. I have my own life, I can’t be bothered to put up with this shit anymore.” 

 

He hung up before his brother had the chance to speak.

 

He imagined what would’ve happened if he let his brother speak—

 

_ “Diego help, oh god please I don’t know what to do-“ _

 

_ “Klaus? Klaus? What’s wrong? Speak to me, man.” _

 

_ “It’s such a long way down. Do you want this? Will this make you happy?”  _ he would’ve whispered into the phone.

 

_ “What? what’s going on? Klaus, you’re scaring me, where are you?” _

 

He would’ve laughed thickely, _ “Wish I could tell you, brother o’ mine. I don’t know, I just found the tallest building and made my way up,” _

 

A chill would run down Diego’s spine. His stomach would churn with anxiety. He would track his brothers phone and run out of the academy to his location. He would hop in his car and speed to where Number Four was and talk him down. They would go out and get waffles together, as they sometimes did, and he would get his brother help.

 

God--the police academy had taught him what to do if he encountered a jumper. It was ironic how ultimately the academy was the reason someone wasn’t talked down. 

 

He just never thought it would be his  _ own family. _

 

Diego wanted to scream and cry and punch something--anything--a behavior that would’ve been very uncharacteristic for him. But he didn’t. He kept his usual stoic face as he solemnly looked down at the tragedy he could have prevented. 

 

-

 

Number Six didn’t know how bad it was.   
  
Sure, he knew about the drugs: the oxy, the ecstasy, the nicotine, the marijuana. He knew about the late night runs his brother made, those of which he would return to the mansion at some ungodly hour in the morning, with smudged eyeliner defining the vacant, pleasant look in his eyes. He knew about the nightmares, how he would wake up screaming until his throat went raw and hoarse, how it would cause nearly everyone in the house to stir, even despite the old man’s attempts to soundproof his walls after the first incident. He knew about the curse of his powers, which something Ben could actually relate to. Both boys’ abilities were torturous compared to the rest of their siblings’. He knew about how the demons and ghosts and ghouls and whatnot haunting Number Four would drive him absolutely crazy, sometimes to the point where Ben would have to drag the frightened boy from the depths of the tub water to the surface.    
  
Ben thought he knew the worst of it.   
  
There was no doubt Number Six and Number Four were the closest of the dysfunctional family. It was a friendship based on empathy, as they were the ones who were on the receiving end of most of the special training. Whenever either child would return home—beaten, bruised, and with a hollow look in their eyes—the other would give them a look of knowing and the pair would disappear together for a few hours. They weren’t aware of the specifics of the other’s training, they knew better than to ask. The two just coexisted and befriended each other based on just knowing. Knowing about the suffering, knowing about the pain and the torture that was subjected onto them through the works of that cursed old man.    
  
Ben didn’t know the worst of it.   
  
The Seance was the first to find out when his closest brother lost his life. They were 16.   
  
No one knew how it happened. The only reason they knew their was dead was the fact that Number Four alone could see him, and no one else. Ben remembers the first time his brother saw his ghastly form for the first time clearly, as if it happened yesterday (did it happen yesterday? He was unsure; time moved and worked differently in the realm he was trapped in).    
  
His brother had been staring idly at a worksheet Grace gave him, which would be a regular occurrence between training and mission. The jade-eyed boy happened to glance up, and just about jumped out of his skin.   
  
“Holy sh- Ben! how in Christ’s name did you get in here?” Number Four breathed.   
  
Ben responded with even more confusion and shock as his brother, “I--I--” he stuttered out pathetically.    
  
He got up from his bed, tossing the clipboard off his lap haphazardly, “What’s wrong Benny-boy, cat’s got your tongue?” he walked over to sling an arm around him.   
  
“Klaus  _ wait-“ _ Ben panicked.   
  
But it was too late— his living brother’s hand glided through his own body like a hot knife through butter. A chilling sensation ran through each boy. Number Four shuddered, stumbling back with wide eyes and clutching his hand to his chest like a wounded animal.   
  
“No.” Number Four’s voice wavered, “Don’t- Ben don’t you  _ dare _ tell me-“ the look in his eyes begged the ghost as his skinny frame began to shake.   
  
Ben dropped his gaze, “Klaus...” he trailed off, not really knowing where to go with his sentence. But that was all the confirmation the other boy needed as thick, glossy tears began to well in his eyes and pour down his gaunt cheeks, eyeliner dripping off his face.   
  
Apparently, Ben knew nothing.   
  
When he was alive, he didn’t know the drugs went further than marijuana and the occasional multicolored pill he would retrieve out of a small, plastic baggie. he didn’t know there was more to the addiction than a few swigs of vodka and a cigarette.    
  
He didn’t know he would be watching his brother snort up lines of speed and cocaine and lord knows what else off a toilet seat in a Denny’s bathroom at two in the morning. He screamed at his brother when he tied a belt above the crease of his elbow, melting a substance in a dirty spoon in his hand with a lighter. He screamed and pleaded and begged but nothing worked.  _ Nothing worked. _ Number Four had seemed to ignoring his very existence, as if pretending his brother wasn’t there the problem would go away and Ben would miraculously be revived from the dead.    
  
But Number Six had slipped away from the realm of the living, meanwhile klaus was slipping further and further down the rabbit hole of substance abuse and general reckless behavior.    
  
Ben knew about the nightmares, about the screeching, about the ghosts, and about the curse of his powers and the decision of Reginald Hargreeves to experiment on said abilities.   
  
He didn’t know about the mausoleum.   
  
It was about a day after The Seance had come face to face with his spirit and also right around the time when he started to ignore Ben. The frail boy had told his father that he could see his brother’s ghost almost immediately after the interaction. The older man went out to look for the body on his own.   
  
The elder man returned home a half hour later, with Ben's body in what the siblings presumed to be a body bag. Allison made a strangled noise and turned in towards luther, who held her in a firm embrace. Diego tried to keep his retain his regular stoic expression, but his eyes were brimmed with tears. Five had been missing for years, unaware of the tragedy. Vanya looked at Number Four sympathetically.    
  
The boy who could see ghosts looked as if he was about to become one as well. His eyes were hollow and the occasional shudder wracked his body. His blank expression gave away no trace of sadness or mourning. He drew a cigarette out of his coat pocket, held it between his chapped lips and lit it; his father made no objection as klaus was the first to walk away and retreat back to his room. Ben followed, of course, not really caring what his siblings had to say about his death at the moment.   
  
His brother just stared at the wall across from his bed. And stared. And stared some more. He just seemed so utterly lifeless, and it  _ terrified _ Ben. The ghost tried almost everything to get his brother to speak to him—or just speak at all.   
  
_ “Klaus please! I’m your brother, your best friend-“ _ __   
__   
_ “I just died klaus, and you’re just ignoring me?-“ _ __   
__   
_ “At least now you have a ghost who’s actually on your side-“ _ __   
__   
_ “I’m real y'know! You can’t ignore me forever-“ _ __   
  
But apparently that’s what his brother was planning on doing.    
  
That is until Reginald Hargreeves burst through his door, clipboard in hand.   
  
“Number Four, are you aware of the date today?”   
  
No response.   
  
The man made a _ “hmph” _ noise and he marked something in his notebook, “I expect you to answer me when I’m speaking to you, but I’ll excuse it on account of the death of Number Six. On that note, his passing is no acceptable excuse to miss your training.” he checked his watch, “I’m greatly disappointed, Number Four.”    
  
Ben winced at that. His brother remained silent, although tremors had began to work their way through his body.    
  
The elder cleared his throat, “Now, no time to waste, come. you have much to work on if you start trembling at the sight of what presuming is a dead team member.”   
  
that killed Ben. _ Team member? Number Six? _ He had __ literally died  and the old scum still had no emotion when regarding him.

 

Once again, the Seance remained unaffected by the man’s words, standing up and silently following him out of his room. Ben’s stomach twisted with anxiety he watched his brother follow his dad out of the room, who looked like he’d accept anything that was coming. 

 

He silently trailed-- _ glided _ , for that matter,  _ holy shit-- _ behind his brother who followed their father. If Number Four was scared to any degree, he didn’t show it. He didn’t show any emotion, for that matter. The Seance was usually an eccentric, flamboyant boy; seeing him completely devoid of emotion scared Ben. 

 

The ghost followed the pair into a car--having a car door slammed through him because no one could see his form was new, wow--and then into a cemetary.

 

A sense of dread started to pool in Number Six’s stomach.  _ Oh god--please don't tell me-- _

 

But his worries were confirmed as the old man pulled up next to a run down, dusty mausoleum. A chill runs down his spine--was  _ this  _ his brother’s training? Ben was positively sure he would’ve strangled the elder in front of him if it weren’t for his ghostly limitations. 

 

He watched helplessly as their father practically ripped the still unresponsive boy from the backseat out of the car. His eyes stung as his brother was thrown into the large, empty torture chambre that Ben could now see were swimming with ghosts. He took a sharp inhale in at the grotesque features of most of the spirits: partially ripped off limbs, torn ligaments and tendons, spilling guts, gouged eyes, rotten flesh.

 

Ben was positively horrified. The second child just collapsed. 

 

Number Six levitated--he would have to get used to that-- over to the fallen body. He didn’t seem to be injured in any way, but he was completely unresponsive. Ben knew his brother was no stranger to dissociative episodes, but this was a new extreme even for him.

 

Hours passed. Spirits screeched. Despite being one, Ben’s ears started to ring slightly with the screams and yells. His brother seemed to attract the dead like a magnet; even Number Six could feel the involuntary sensation to just…. latch onto the child. He tried to refrain as much as possible from making any sort of contact with Number Four, aside from the few reassurances he thought he managed to yell through the crowd. 

 

_ Jesus,  _ Ben knew their father was messed up when it came to training, but this was next-level fucked. 

 

The Horror knew for a fact this wasn’t how his brother reacted to training--usually when he came back from training in the past, his eyes were rimmed with red and him arms and legs were adored with scratches and bruises. 

 

And if the past was any indication for what would happen this time, Ben knew The Seance would be locked inside of this dreadful tomb for at least a couple of days. 

 

Time was strange in this realm; it wasn't structural like it was when he was alive. He couldn’t necessarily move into the past or the future, but it  _ was  _ fluctuate and flexible--all this to say it was a short experience for Ben. However, the other boy looked like he’d been in there for a lifetime. Despite not uttering a word the entire period of time, Number Four looked like he had screamed at the top of his lungs for the entirety of it. Several tear stains stood out again his dusty cheeks and his expression was so slack and his eyes were so blank that Ben had to remind himself that his brother was indeed alive. 

 

He didn’t know the effect of his own death. 

 

Immediately upon returning from the mausoleum, The Seance brushed past his siblings’ concerned glanced and headed straight for the bathroom.

 

The Horror looked away, trying to preserve some of his brother’s humility as the other stripped, seemingly unfazed by the other boy in the room with him. Ben looked back towards him when the sounds of water splashing around stopped, assuming he was fully submerged. Number Four looked so peaceful, with his eyes closed and breathing slowed. 

 

And then he put his head under. 

 

Ben was frantic; he ran over to him and tried to pull him up, but then remembered he had no way to touch him. Number Six frantically grasped at nothing for a solid minute before his brother shot up from the depths of the tub, thrashing wildly and breathing speradicly. After a few seconds of regaining a somewhat-regular breathing pattern, he went under again. At this point, Ben was terrified and breathless from screaming so much. His voice was hoarse as Number Four stopped this ritual after about five times. 

 

Then his brother spoke.  

 

“Why are you still here?” he whispered, his voice croaky and raspy due to his lack of speaking. 

 

Ben’s heart leapt with joy at the sound of his brother’s voice; he was starting to worry if his could even  _ see  _ him in the first place. But his enthusiasm stuttered at his question 

 

“What do you mean why am I still here?” Number Six asked, dumbfounded. 

 

“I mean,” he turned his head to look at Ben, his dulled jade eyes burning into his, “you can leave. I’m sure you’ll be accepted into heaven-- and even if you’re not, you could just leave.”

 

Ben’s heart broke at the question, “Klaus, why would I leave when you’re doing things like this? You’re my brother--I don't want you to have the same fate as I did,”

 

The other boy looked away for a few seconds and then laughed thickly, “Okay, Benny, okay. Look away, would’ya? Unless you want a show or something,” he gave a weak smile and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Ben was too relieved to see his brother acting like his old self to be annoyed at the comment.    
  


Ben left the bathroom and the other followed shortly after with a towel wrapped around his upper half. 

 

However, his brother’s somewhat regained playfulness didn’t last long. 

 

A couple hours later, after a screaming fight at the dinner table, he stomped upstairs, eyes red and burning and began throwing random things in a backpack.

 

“What are you doing?!” Ben frantically asked.

 

“I’m leaving,” his brother spat, throwing a random bag of pills into the heap, “Christ, Ben, I can’t stay here--especially now that you’re  _ dead--” _ he choked on his words.

 

Ben wished he would’ve stopped him, but in that moment, he understood. He understood the repressed anger, the pain of training, the suffering of the household, and the mourning of a family member. And so he let him leave the house, fuming, with a backpack full of random clothes, a walkman, stolen money, and a variety of brightly colored pills.

 

Little did he know what a  _ shitstorm  _ his brother’s leaving would be. 

 

For the next few years, he watched helplessly as Number Four stole, pickpocketed, and scrounged for money to purchase whatever illegal substances he could get his hands on. He watched helplessly as he watched his brother inject anything and everything into his bloodstream. He watched helplessly as The Seance passed out beside a dumpster in the alley between a bar and a strip club. He watched helplessly as his brother snorted lines of speed off a toilet in a run down diner at two a.m. He watched helplessly as Number Four was rushed to the hospital on multiple occasions because of the lethal amount of poison coursing through his veins. They said it was a miracle he survived so many times--especially without any consequences. His brother shrugged it off. Ben was in  _ agony _ . Half the time his brother was so drugged up he couldn’t even remember his own name, let alone see the one spirit who clung to him with good intentions. 

 

He didn’t know how far his brother was really willing to go.

 

The worst part about observing Number Four like this was that he couldn’t stop him from doing the absolute worst to himself. He couldn’t prevent the exchanges that his brother would make--one night of absolutely anything the other wanted for a few grams of absolutely anything the kid did. He watched his brother get thrown to his hands and needs in a dirty alleyway that smelled like piss and the only thing he could do was listen to the moans of pain and the harsh, repetitive thunk of the dumpster against the stained brick wall. 

 

The Seance didn’t seem to care. Hell, he could be rotting from the inside out with diseases he didn’t even know about; he didn’t bat an eyelash. What’s one more sickness for one more high?

 

Ben had considered leaving (he even did, once, only to return to his brother in a hospital more drugged up that he had ever seen him). It was obvious he was never going to improve. Number Four rarely listened to the spirit; he only talked to him when he wasn’t on the verge of collapse, which wasn’t very often. No matter how many times Number Six screamed at him to get help, talk to someone, visit his siblings without stealing from them, he either didn’t or pretended not to hear him. 

 

He didn’t abandon him, though, at least not permanently. Although things would’ve been better in heaven  _ (no shit, Sherlock) _ , he didn’t leave his brother’s side for more than a few days. He couldn’t, he was too damn  _ worried  _ about what the junkie would do. Ben was sure that if he left for too long, the next time he would see his brother would be in the spiritual realm. And so he stayed. 

 

He didn’t realise how little any of them actually cared. 

 

Sure, Ben knew that the rest of their family suffered the consequences of their brother’s addiction from time to time, but he didn’t think they wouldn’t give a shit if Number Four was on death’s door.

 

The Seance called them from time to time, asking how their lives were, how they were doing. Unfortunately, most of the time the conversation turned to begging their siblings for money. 

 

Only Diego seemed to care, as he would occasionally drive him places and buy him food when he could see his brother’s bones were a little too prominent. 

 

However, no one deeply cared about him the way Ben did. No one asked him if he was okay, no one checked him into rehab, no one gave him a place to sleep, no one initiated the conversation. Ben would never forgive them for that.

 

He didn’t know it would end like this. 

 

The overdoses were one thing; they could have been purely accidental and they happened so often Ben lost count of how many times his brother would be rushed to the hospital in the back of an ambulance. 

 

But as he watched his brother sway on the edge of a skyscraper, eyes staring blankly into the horizon, it all hit him like a brick. 

 

_ God, please don’t tell me all those times were-- _

 

He screamed and screamed at his brother, more desperately than any time before, but Number Four was unresponsive. The occasional thick laughter that would escape his lips were carried off by the chilly wind that swayed his frame back and forth, making Ben’s stomach drop.

His heart broke when his brother even called each of his siblings and only Diego picked up. Ben didn’t hear what their second brother said, but from the way Number Four’s eyes glazed over he assumed it was devastating to hear. Ben would never forgive his siblings for that, whether it in be in their time spent in the living realm or in the dead. He didn’t have time for any anger at that moment--he needed to focus on this brother who was mere seconds away from his own self-inflicted demise. 

 

He tried every saying in the book,

 

“Please get down, we can talk about this!”

 

“You don’t want this, Klaus-”

 

“Being dead is terrible! Listen to me!”

 

“Just talk to me-”

 

Number Four didn’t respond.

 

His voice went out, his vision went hazy with tears, his breath shook out from his lungs, and his ghastly frame trembled as his brother turned around to look at him, finally, and  _ oh my god Klaus please come here and get down-- _

 

He started saying nonsensical things about telling his family that he loves them and will miss them, delirious and still riding his high. Ben gave out a raspy yell, tears still streaming down his face.

 

Number Four took a step backwards, and closed his eyes. Number Six screamed. 

 

Ben thought he heard Klaus apologize as the force of the fall carried him to his end. 

 

-

 

And so they all stood there, Luther holding Allison, Diego shaking, Vanya trying to not be sick, and Ben unknowingly in the corner letting out guttural sobs. 

 

_ call my friends and tell them that i love them _

 

Klaus, we love you, please come back don’t let this be real--

 

_ and i’ll miss them _

 

A hollow feeling spread through the siblings’ cores.

 

_ sorry _

 

We’re so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long, i accidentally made it a lot longer than i thought it would be lol
> 
> anyways cry with me in the comments i hope u had a real good time

**Author's Note:**

> oops my fingers slipped and i've made everyone who's read my shit want to perish


End file.
